


said and done

by lord_is_it_mine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode: s02e03 Coda, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Extended Scene, Gen, I don't know what else to tag this as, M/M, Sad, Short, Short One Shot, Wordcount: 100-1.000, not even happy at all, other than NOPE, tuuuurrrn baaaaaack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1433002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lord_is_it_mine/pseuds/lord_is_it_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was so alone, and I owe you so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	said and done

**Author's Note:**

> Reichenbach au wherein Moriarty didn't shoot himself and is in fact still wandering the living world. Basically a rehash of the final scene in the cemetery. (more two A.M. drabble for you).

“You, you told me once, that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this-” he knows what words burn in the front of his mind, but when he speaks, he may as well be speaking a different language- “you were the best man and the most human, human being that I have ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, there, so. There.” He tries again to make himself say it, but falls short of the mark- “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” His knees start to shake and he has to ask, one last request.

“Oh, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more _miracle_ , Sherlock, for me: don’t. Be. _Dead_. Would you- _just for me_? Just _stop it_. _Stop this_.”

He turns to walk away, knowing that even now he still hasn't said everything he ever wanted to. There’s no point, none at all, no real reason to utter the last words he ever thought he’d be saying to a tombstone. Of course he never thought he’d have to. He was very well used to the idea of just never saying them to a living breathing man, his best friend, his-

“How eloquent- ‘ _I was so alone, and I owe you so much_ ’. You’re quite the poet, Doctor Watson.”

John spins on his heels, reaching instinctively for the gun he doesn't have. It’s back at the flat, next to his chair where he’s sat and considered following Sherlock, like he has for the best years of his life. He’s still not convinced that Sherlock’s really gone- or at least gone somewhere he cannot go too. Now in his way stands the man behind all this, the man with the vile grin spread across his face, letting it fall as he chews loudly on an apple.

“ _You,_ ” John growls.

“Me!” Moriarty shouts gleefully, waving his arms in the air and bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excited child. “Oh, right, I suppose you’re not too happy to see me are you? _Oops_.”

“You bastard. I should shoot you where you stand. I would if I was armed.”

“I don’t doubt it. Wouldn't be the first time you pulled the trigger for Sherlock Holmes would it? How long had you known him when you shot that cabbie- less than two days wasn't it?” He whistles long and low, impressed as well as mocking. “Wish I could find me a man like you.”

“Get out of here. Go. I’ll call the police.” John knows the threat is feeble; he can’t rely on the people who are nearly as guilty as Moriarty is for all of this.

“Paying my last respects. No crime in that.” Moriarty practically waltzes by John, taking one last obscenely loud bite out of his apple before placing the rest of it gently atop Sherlock’s tombstone. A stiff breeze comes by and John prays it blows the core off- no such luck. It sits there as a final taunt that John is once again powerless to stop. “Lovely service. Small crowd, but I suppose that’s fitting when all is said and done.” Moriarty smirks proudly and once again brushes past the army doctor, to the edge of his earshot before calling over his shoulder,

“But not _all_ is said and done... not _really_. Isn't that right John?”

He waits for the crunching of shoes on leaves to fade completely. He turns and knocks the apple core off into the grass with the back of his hand and falls to his knees in the dead leaves and dead twigs. _Dead. Dead. Don’t. Be. Dead._ He clings to the black granite, cold and hard and equally lifeless under his fingertips.

“I love you, Sherlock,” He whispers, his voice cracking and falling to the ground.

“ _I love you._ ”


End file.
